second culprit was also suspected. A different force was in charge of that investigation and so comparing the different elements and evidence will be a more complex and time-consuming process. We’ve been given the green light, but this could take hours, possibly days, I can’t say for sure. I know this has been very hard for you, but your mother is no longer in a frozen field, she’s here. And the reason why she’s here is so that she can help us to solve the crime of which she herself was the victim. I’ll be in there with her, and I promise you that no one respects the smallest detail she might be able to tell us more than these pathologists. Believe me, they are the voice of the victims.’
She could tell from the look of acceptance on their faces that she had convinced them. Whilst she didn’t need their consent, there was nothing to be gained from having irate relatives getting in the way of her work.
‘At least we’ll be able to hold a Mass for her soul,’ murmured Marta.
‘Yes. That’ll do you good. You know she would have liked that.’ Amaia proffered a firm hand, which both women shook. ‘I’ll do my best to speed things up. I promise to call you.’
Amaia swapped her coat for a gown and entered the autopsy room. Dr San Martín, stooped over a stainless steel worktop, was showing something on the computer to a couple of assistants.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Or should that be good afternoon?’
‘For us it’s good afternoon, we’ve already had lunch,’ replied one of the assistants.
Amaia suppressed the look of disbelief spreading across her face. She had a fairly strong stomach, but the idea of those three eating before an autopsy seemed … improper.
San Martín started to pull on his gloves.
‘So, Inspector, which of the two do you want us to start on?’
‘Which of what two?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Lucía Aguirre,’ he said pointing to the body draped with a sheet on a nearby slab, ‘or Ramon Quiralte,’ he added, signalling a table further away, on which she could make out a large shape still zipped inside a body bag.
Amaia looked at him quizzically.
‘Both autopsies are scheduled for today, so we can start with whichever one you like.’
Amaia walked over to the mound made by Quiralte’s body on the table, unzipped the bag and studied his face. Death had erased any vestige of good looks he might once have possessed. Around his eyes, dark purple spots had formed where small capillary veins had burst from the strain of vomiting. His half-open mouth, frozen in the middle of a spasm, revealed his teeth and the tip of his white-coated tongue, which protruded like a third lip. His swollen lips were covered in acid burns, and still streaked with vomit, which had trickled into his ear and formed rank clots in his hair. Amaia looked over to where the woman lay and shook her head. Only two metres separated victim and executioner; it was quite conceivable they would use the same scalpel to cut open both bodies.
‘He shouldn’t be here,’ she said, thinking out loud.
‘Pardon?’ replied San Martín.
‘He shouldn’t be here … Not with her.’ The assistants stared at her, bemused. ‘Not together,’ she added, gesturing towards Lucía’s corpse.
‘I doubt whether either of them care at this point, don’t you think?’
She realised that, even if she could explain, they wouldn’t understand.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Right, then, which one do you want first?’
‘I’m not interested in him,’ she replied coldly. ‘Suicide, end of story.’
She zipped up the bag, and Quiralte’s face disappeared.
The pathologist shrugged as he uncovered Lucía Aguirre’s body. Approaching the slab, Amaia came to a halt, bowed her head in a fleeting prayer, then finally looked up. Stripped of her red-and-white pullover, Amaia barely recognised the cheerful woman whose smiling face presided over the entrance to her house. The corpse had been washed, but the multiple blows, scratches, and bruises she had suffered made the woman appear soiled.
‘Doctor,’ said Amaia, moving closer to him, ‘I wanted to ask you a favour. I know you follow strict procedures, but, as you can imagine, what really interests me is the amputation. I managed to get hold of photos of the skeletal remains the Guardia Civil discovered in the cave at Elizondo,’ she said, showing San Martín a thick envelope. ‘This is all they’ve given me so far. What I need you to do is compare the two sections where the bones were cut through. If we could establish a link between this and the Johana Márquez case, Judge Markina would authorise further measures that might enable us to make headway in the case. I’m meeting him later today – I was hoping I could take along something a little more convincing than mere theories.’
San Martín nodded. ‘All right, let’s get started.’
Switching on a powerful lamp above the body, he held a magnifying glass above the severed limb and photographed the lesion. Then he leaned in so close his nose almost touched the mutilated arm.
‘A clean, post-mortem incision. The heart had already stopped, and the blood was clotting. It was made with a serrated object similar to an electric saw, yet different; this is reminiscent of the Johana Márquez case, where the direction of the incision also suggested an electric knife or angle grinder. Since in the Márquez case it was assumed the culprit was the stepfather, no further inquiries were made into the object he might have used; a few tools from the house and his car were examined, but no matches found.’
Amaia lined up the photographs Padua had given her on the negatoscope and switched on the light, while San Martín placed the one the printer had just spat out next to them.
He studied the images at length, rearranging and occasionally superimposing them, giving low, rhythmical grunts that set Amaia’s teeth on edge and brought joking remarks from his assistants.
‘In your opinion, were the incisions made with the same object?’ Amaia asked, interrupting San Martín’s musings.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that would be saying a lot. But what I can confirm is that the same technique was used for all of them; they were made by a right-handed person who was very assured and also very strong.’
Amaia gazed at him, wanting more.
San Martín went on, grinning at the glimmer of hope he saw in the inspector’s eye:
‘Although I can confirm that the bones all belonged to adults, without any tissue attached, it’s impossible to pinpoint their exact age or sex from looking at the photos, still less whether these limbs were surgical amputations or taken from a desecrated tomb. It’s obvious at first glance that the incisions resemble one another, that the bones are all forearms … However, in order to be one hundred per cent certain, I’d need to examine the instrument that was used. We could make moulds of the bones themselves to scan and compare them. I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the best I can do, based on photographic evidence. It would be different if we had the actual samples.’
‘The Guardia Civil have their own laboratories – that’s
